A Death in the Venetian Quarter (24 page)
Read A Death in the Venetian Quarter Online
Authors: Alan Gordon
“Bargains made at night will seem dearer in the light,” he muttered. “My old grandam used to tell me that when she took us to market. I wish she were here now. She was a greater battle-axe than any I've ever carried.”
“You had better give me yours right now,” I said.
“Why?”
“If you're going to start telling jokes, then the fighting will fall to me perforce.”
“I am too weary for both jokes and fighting, Feste.”
“Then let us keep a peaceful silence until we come to our journey's end, my friend.”
Past the great Horologion we marched. Too dark to see the hour. I sensed that the city lay awake around us, tossing and turning on the uneasy ground on which it rested. We turned right, through the gates to the Great Palace, and banged on the doors of Chalke Prison.
It was some time before they opened. A sleepy servant of the warden's looked at the axes gleaming in the torchlight and woke up quickly. He tried shutting the doors, but Henry belied his declaration of weariness by seizing him by the throat and tossing him into the street.
The Varangians burst through the entryway with me following at a safe distance. The warden came out with several prison guards behind him. He took in the scene with surprise.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted.
“We have come for Isaakios Angelos,” said Henry. “Be so kind as to turn him over to us.”
“I see,” said the warden, nodding sagely. “The Emperor is finally having him executed. I can't say that I'm surprised. I never understood why he let him go this long.”
Henry began laughing, his comrades joining in. The warden relaxed and sat behind his desk, a pinched smile being his sole contribution to the general merriment.
“I'm afraid you have it wrong,” said Henry when it subsided. “Isaakios is being restored to the Byzantine throne. Alexios has fled. Now, turn him over so that we might escort him to Blachernae.”
The warden looked around, still smiling, thinking he was the butt of some joke. But the smiles had vanished from the faces of the axe-bearers. Slowly, the bureaucrat turned pale.
“By whose authority is this?” he choked out. “Let me see the orders.”
“Very proper,” said Henry. “Quite correct. Let me see, where did I put them?” He patted his armor with his hands, searching. “Ah. Here, this should satisfy you.” He held his axe high over his head with both hands, and with a swift blow he cleaved the desk neatly down the middle.
“That is my authority,” said Henry. “Just open those gates, will you?”
The warden looked at the splintered remains of his only piece of official furniture. The prison guards stood back and nodded to their brother Varangians. The warden looked around the room and realized he was alone. He stood, pulled his keys from his waist, unlocked the
padlock, and shoved the door open, then turned and beckoned to Henry to enter.
padlock, and shoved the door open, then turned and beckoned to Henry to enter.
“You had better come with us, hadn't you?” said Henry, gripping the warden's elbow. “There's more use for those keys now, isn't there? Lads, fan out.”
His men spread through the prison as if it was the sort of thing they did regularly. The prisoners woke with the noise and pressed against the bars of their cells, silent. They didn't know whether the soldiers meant freedom or execution.
Henry, the warden in tow, and I walked to the last cell. Isaakios sat on the edge of his bed, his hands folded in his lap.
“I hear armor,” he said. “Soldiers. And keys. That would be the warden. And the jingling of bells on a cap. Is that you, Feste?”
“It is, sire,” I said.
“Are these the soldiers of hope of which we spoke, Fool?”
“They are, sire. Will you come with us?”
He stood.
“Soldier, give me your name,” he said.
Henry knelt.
“Sire, I am Henry, Captain of the Varangians at the Hodegon Garrison.”
“I know you,” said Isaakios. “You were with me at the Double Column last year. And, if my memory serves, you were a strapping young Englishman who came to the guard when I still had eyes and a throne.”
“Your memory is correct, sire,” said Henry. “We cannot restore your eyes, but we can restore your throne.”
Isaakios hesitated. “My brother,” he said. “Does he live?”
“He fled the city a few hours past,” I said. “The Crusaders will resume their assault in the morning. The people cry for your leadership.”
“Do they?” asked Isaakios. “Well, then I must not disappoint them. Warden, put your keys to use.”
Henry shoved the warden forward, and the cell was opened. Isaakios drew himself up and stepped with authority through the door. When he reached the aisle, he turned and faced us.
“There are several others here who I would have released,” he said. “They are my supporters, and I will need faithful men to serve me. They are all in the four cells next to mine. Alexios Doukas, are you awake?”
“If this is not some heavenly dream to see you out of your cell, sire,” cried the bushy-browed lover of Evdokia.
“Good,” said Isaakios. “You have been the source of much good advice since I have been here. I need a new chamberlain. Are you willing?”
“With all my heart, sire,” said Doukas.
“Warden,” said Isaakios.
“Sire,” squeaked the warden, dropping to his knees.
Isaakios turned to us and smiled.
“He learns quickly, does he not?” he said. “Warden, I may yet decide not to have you killed. Now, open those cells.”
Men staggered out of the darkness and became the Emperor's men.
“To Blachernae!” shouted Henry, and his men took up the cry all the way back up the Mese, waking the city as they marched and perhaps striking a little fear into the enemy outside the walls.
Henry commandeered a chariot from somewhere, and I rode beside Isaakios, catching him up on everything that had happened since my last visit. By the time we reached the Blachernae wall, the rest of the Varangians were established throughout the palace and grounds. Their cheers resounded through the courtyard as we drove up.
Philoxenites came to greet us.
“Sire, I am your Treasurer, if you will have me,” he said, bowing.
Isaakios motioned him to come up to the chariot.
“I understand that you were instrumental in bringing me back,” he said quietly. “An Emperor thanks you.”
“No need, sire.”
“Now, a treasurer with no gold is like a shepherd with no sheep. I want you to seize all the possessions of my brother's family and raise funds any way you can, so long as it's fast.”
“It is done, sire,” said the eunuch, gliding away.
We entered the palace and ascended to the throne room. I guided the Emperor to the throne, one of the few things Alexios was unable to take with him. Isaakios sat down and placed his arms on the armrest. He looked old and shriveled compared to the previous occupant.
“There used to be some cushions here,” he grumbled. “Someone fetch me some cushions. And a decent robe. If I'm to face the Crusader envoys, I damn well better look like an emperor. Which reminds me, I used to have a wife around somewhere. Does anyone know where she's gotten to?”
“Sire, she lives close by,” said a courtier.
“Good,” said Isaakios. “Wake her up, slit the throat of anyone you find in bed with her, and bring her here. And start dressing this place up as well. I don't care where you scavenge the drapes from. We may be impoverished at the moment, but I want everything that the envoys see to be the richest they have ever seen in their lives. Who will they send?”
“A delegation of French and Venetians,” said Henry.
“We'll need the Imperial Interpreter,” muttered Isaakios.
The courtiers looked at each other in consternation. One of them cleared his throat.
“What?” barked the Emperor.
“The Imperial Interpreter fled with the Empâthe usurper,” he said.
“Wonderful,” sighed the Emperor. “Well, find me ⦠Feste, you speak Venetian dialect, don't you?”
“Yes, sire,” I said, my heart sinking.
“And langue d'oc?”
“Of course, sire.”
“Good. You are now the Imperial Interpreter. Someone take him, clean him up, and dress him appropriately.”
And before I could protest, I was led into another room, stripped of my motley, scrubbed of my makeup, and thrown into a blue tunic with a light purple robe.
“So that's what you look like,” chuckled Henry as I was thrust back into the throne room. “I can see why you prefer the disguise.”
The room itself had improved substantially in the short time that I was out. The Emperor was resting comfortably on silk cushions, his robes and buskins the peak of fashion. The walls had been draped with gold banners, and a second, smaller throne had been placed by his. As I took my place by his side, his wife was brought in.
“Is that you, Margaret?” said Isaakios, sniffing the air. “I remember that perfume. You wore it the last time you visited me. When was that, five years ago?”
She stood mute, clenching her fists.
“How does she look, Feste?” he asked.
“She is quite beautiful, sire,” I said.
“I like to think that you are as beautiful as the day we wed, my dear,” said Isaakios. “But of course, you were only nine then. I daresay you've become a real woman by now. Well, we'll resume conjugal relations tomorrow. In the meantime, you had better get yourself dressed up. We're having company.”
Envoys were sent at dawn to the Crusader encampment. While we
awaited their reply, the preparations for parley continued. The road from the Blachernae Gate to the palace was decked with banners and every remaining flower in the city. All the nobles who had remained were charged with appearing in their most sumptuous robes. They were placed along both sides of the street and ordered to stay on penalty of meeting the nastier end of a Varangian axe.
awaited their reply, the preparations for parley continued. The road from the Blachernae Gate to the palace was decked with banners and every remaining flower in the city. All the nobles who had remained were charged with appearing in their most sumptuous robes. They were placed along both sides of the street and ordered to stay on penalty of meeting the nastier end of a Varangian axe.
Soon, we heard cheering from without and the blare of trumpets. The doors were flung open, and a guard announced the envoys from the Crusaders.
There were two from the army and two from the Venetians. Geoffroy de Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, was the leader. He was of some fifty years, with gray hair, a stern mien, and a calculating look. His armor was so fine that I doubted it had ever come close enough to an enemy to receive even a token scratch. He looked about the room as if measuring it for his own furniture and glanced at the bejeweled ladies with an eye of appraisal, but only for the jewels. With him was Mathieu de Montmorency, ostensibly Villehardouin's superior but more a soldier than a diplomat. He was a pallid manâwe learned later that he was deathly ill, despite his valiant command in battle, and would not live another year. The two Venetian representatives were a Tiepolo and some nephew of the Doge, both of whom spent more time spying on their allies than they did watching us.
Villehardouin stepped forward and knelt before the throne.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he said in stentorian tones that reached the farthest corners of the room. “On behalf of the most holy Crusade, I praise God that our assistance has restored you to your rightful throne.”
“We thank you,” said Isaakios gravely after I translated.
“We bring words of joy and thanksgiving from your noble son, whose tears first moved us to divert our forces from their original purpose.”
“Then our own prayers have been answered,” replied the Emperor. “And we seek no further hindrance to your holy quest. We wish you Godspeed and success in your endeavors.”
Villehardouin smiled.
“We will leave,” he said, “once the terms of our covenant with your royal son have been met.”
“What covenant is that?” asked the Emperor.
“To submit this empire and its church to Rome; to pay the army two hundred thousand silver marks for its service on your behalf to donate, as a charitable gesture, a year's provisions to the Crusade; and to contribute ten thousand men and arms, along with ships to transport them, to join our venture to Beyond-the-Sea.”
There was a long pause after I finished translating this to the Emperor. Then he leaned forward on his throne and beckoned to the Frenchman. Villehardouin stepped closer.
“You must be joking,” muttered the Emperor. I translated, keeping my voice at the same low level.
“Perhaps we should adjourn to a more private setting,” suggested Villehardouin.
This was met with instant agreement. The Emperor, the Empress, his newly-appointed advisers plus Philoxenites, the envoys, and I retreated into an adjoining chamber with a large oaken table, normally used for small banquets. Philoxenites closed the door and sat next to Alexios Doukas, who was resplendent in his Chamberlain's garb.
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